The conversations between Krista and her travel companions had been sparse. The dwarf no longer answered to the name Squateye, insisting his name was Ironcloud. But Krista would always know him as Squateye, and a traitor.
Borden and the dwarf conversed aplenty, though, but it was all talk of the Brethren of Mia, Moon Scrolls, and something called The Angel Stone Codex. It was this codex Ironcloud was most eager to show the other man. Borden would mostly just talk about his children, Jovan, Jondralyn, Tala, and Ansel. In fact, he talked about them so much, Krista could recite their names and ages and details of each.
In fact, he talked of them now, casually sitting on the bench in the center of the skiff. “What I wouldn’t have given to communicate with my children these last five years. Alas, there were no kestrels to whisk my messages to Amadon.”
His statement sent a pang of anger through Krista. “Perhaps Squateye could have helped you with those messages.” Sarcasm laced her voice, eyeing the dwarf she once knew as Squateye. “Seems Squateye had ample opportunity to lend a hand.”
“She finally graces us with a comment,” the dwarf said from his place near the prow.
Krista ignored him. “From what I gather, you let the man rot in the dungeons of Rokenwalder for five years knowing exactly who he was, knowing that his family likely thought he was dead.”
“I needn’t explain myself to you,” the dwarf said.
Ironcloud was vastly different than Squateye in temperament. Where Squateye had been full of openness and jovial advice, Ironcloud was an asshole. Krista wondered which personality was the true one. Over the years she had taken comfort in Squateye’s honesty. How could he have fooled Dugal so thoroughly? Or had he? Dugal must have known. But if so, why did he do nothing? There were layers of conspiracy behind everything Dugal did.
“No, you needn’t explain yourself to me, Ironcloud,” she said. The dwarf just stared at her, emotionless. “It just seems no child should go without hearing from their father.”
“I know you miss your father,” Borden said, “as I miss my children. Seems sorrow is our common lot, Krista Aulbrek. But everything has a purpose.”
That the man had read her so easily filled her with unease. She remained silent under his gaze, trepidation growing in her heart. And as always, there was nowhere to turn for comfort. There never had been. Not in five years. Not in ten. Not even when her father was around. The memories of him were so dim—yet she was a prisoner to them, a prisoner to her father’s memory.
She so desperately wanted to nuzzle the neck of her Bloodeye mare, Dread. The warmth of her horse was one thing that could truly calm her. She could feel herself getting both worked up and sad about a great many things. Killing would make the pain go away, would make her mind numb again. Would Gault be ashamed of the daughter I am? Would he be proud that I am an assassin?
“I know you think Gault Aulbrek is a perfect man,” Borden went on. “But there may come a day when you shall find out things about him that will upset you greatly.”
Real fear coiled around her spine at his words. Can he read my thoughts? “What do you know of my father?” Her mind flew back to Ser Aulmut Klingande and the things King Aevrett had uttered in the gardens of Jö Reviens before she had stuffed her dagger into his heart. Solvia Klingande had no reason to lie, not in that moment. Why would the woman claim such things about Aulmut and my mother if it wasn’t true? Deep down she knew it was all just a twisted game set up by Dugal. But what am I to learn from it?
“The perfect king,” Borden began, “the perfect soldier, the perfect father is only without flaw because he is off fighting for his kingdom. The man who is constantly present will never be as perfect as the one who is away, the one who is gone. Any young girl is bound to romanticize her father, especially if he is nobly absent because of a war. That is all I am saying. That is all I know of your father. I imagine my own daughters feel the same about me, for I too have been gone long.”
She could feel the ropes that bound her wrists cutting into her flesh. It was as if her hands, of their own volition, wanted to reach out and wrap around Borden’s neck and silence him for implying that Gault was less than he was.
“Wake me when we reach dry land.” Krista settled down into the canvas rolls at the bottom of the boat, done with the conversation, wishing she had never started it. She turned her back to Borden and Ironcloud, forcing her eyes closed, hoping sleep would somehow sweep her confusion and emotions straight into oblivion.
She couldn’t block Borden’s voice. “I know that both you and your friend Hans are now fatherless.”
“He’s not my friend,” she muttered. He stabbed me. That I remember. “Hans Rake was never my friend.”
“What do you mean, he’s not your friend?” Borden asked. “You’re both Bloodwoods. Assassins. Cold-blooded murderers. To be frank, the worst kind of human there is. You share that honor with him.”
Krista rolled back over and sat up, noting some form of deep observation lurking behind Borden’s eyes, as if he knew all about her, more than she knew about herself. His words bothered her greatly. And he wasn’t done. “You are both murderers.” He hissed the word murderers.
“I am no murderer,” she said, her gaze straying to the dwarf. If the real Squateye were truly there, he would defend her against this slander. He knew her, and her purpose. But the dwarf met her gaze with a blank stare, both eyes dark and mysterious. Gone was the filthy leather eye patch, gone was almost everything she remembered about the one-eyed dwarf who had helped Dugal train her all those years. There was no help within him. You are both murderers, Borden had said with such conviction.
She recalled her Sacrament of Souls. Black trees. Grass as green and lush as the carpets of royalty. She thought of all the dead prisoners, all the dead rapists and thieves, all the dead murderers. Real true murderers. All dead at her hand. Now, in her current plight and confusion, she wondered if she had ever done Dashiel, the patron god of all Bloodwoods, any honor. Her eyes strayed toward Hans and Café Colza in the other boat. They had drifted closer now, the chain connecting the boats drooping heavy in the water. Hans’ frigid stare lanced back at her, intense and full of purpose. He stabbed me! Poisoned me! She would have no problem slaying him. But I am no murderer!
The contradiction ate at her. And Black Dugal had easily seen that confusion and conflict within her. Now it all festered under the bruise of so many betrayals. Hans. Squateye. Dugal. Even Gault. They were all full of betrayal in their own way. Trust is fleeting, while betrayal is timeless. She had read that in The Book of the Betrayer. Truth be told, Borden Bronachell was the one person she knew who had not yet betrayed her. “I am no murderer,” she repeated, trying to garner favor somehow.
“You are the very definition of a murderer.” Borden sat forward on the bench.
She met his stern gaze, did not break away from it. “I am a good person.”
“No.” He stood, towering over her. “You are not.” There was a singular threatening rigidness about his bearing. One thing was for sure: Borden was clearly the type of man not so casually turned from his purpose or opinion.
“I am good,” she said, wondering if just by saying the words, it would make it so.
“Good people kill in self-defense,” Borden said. “Or they kill because they’re hungry, or afraid. Good people do not kill for the art and pleasure of the act. By Mother Mia’s precious light, I know what foul deeds are involved in your Sacrament of Souls. You have been brainwashed by Black Dugal. You are young and you are naive and you have been misled, Krista Aulbrek. You have let yourself be taken advantage of through and through.”
His assertion hurt. It also filled her with a black ire, an even greater need to prove him wrong, to show him she was not the monster he described, nor was she the naive, manipulated girl he claimed she was. “What few I killed deserved to die. They had justice coming to them. And I was merely the vessel that meted out their punishment.”
“What few you killed.” His
voice was almost a snarl now. “I know how many prisoners Bogg pulled from the dungeons, and it was no mere few.”
Krista wondered if her soul wouldn’t just seep out and away into the watery emptiness that surrounded her right then and there. “They were in the dungeons. Naught but criminals. They deserved to die.”
“You’ve used that defense before,” Borden shot back. “And as I said, we were in the dungeons. Both you and I. Naught but criminals, right? Do I deserve to die in some Sacrament of Souls? Do you? Does being imprisoned make one man worse than another? Does the prisoner not have hope, or dreams, or potential to change? Or are those imprisoned naught but forgotten souls, condemned to be used in some cruel sacrament.”
“I am not their judge. I leave that to the gods.”
“No, you were just their executioner.”
“I shall kill you.”
“A tough little girl you are.” Borden sat back down. “You forget who is tied up and who is not.”
Krista looked down at her own bound hands. Had there truly been cruelty in the hands that wielded her daggers during her Sacrament of Souls? The inner chasm in her soul widened, threatening to swallow her up, just like the irrepressible force of the giant ocean surrounding her. Perhaps I should just throw myself in . . .
The dwarf cleared his throat. “Seems every person’s toil, when pursued steadily and faithfully enough, even be it murder, is apt to effect them. Even in cruelty. Krista is who she is, Borden. As is Hans Rake.”
“You helped train me.” Her gaze cut into the dwarf. “Or did you forget, Squateye?”
“I taught you how to create disguises and escape dungeons, and that was all. ’Twas Bogg who taught you all those other things.”
“And Bogg was Dugal all along,” Borden added. “Like I said, you are a misled little girl. You cannot even see truths right in front of you.”
Her eyes remained fixed on the dwarf. “And who were you all along? Ironcloud? Squateye? Who?”
“My real name is Ironcloud. That I have told you. And you can refer to me as such.”
“I will call you Squateye.”
“You are a stubborn one,” Borden said. “But I aim to show you a better way, Krista. I know who you are. I know what destiny awaits you. For I, too, am as cruel and guilty as you. I, too, have done things that weigh heavy on my soul. I, too, know what it is like to commit terrible crimes and strip people wholly of their lives.”
“And I suppose you now aim to tell me what lives you have destroyed,” Krista said with as much sarcasm as she could muster.
“Yes,” Borden answered, a hollow look flushing over his face. “Yes, to you I will confess my sins, Krista Aulbrek. What think you of that?”
“Suppose I’ve no choice.” She shrugged.
He swallowed hard. “Seventeen years ago I stole two babes from their mother. Remember when I told you of the woman you resemble? She trusted me. Two blond twins. Special children who many in the Five Isles would seek to kill. A boy and a girl. And for their safety I disguised them both, and then hid them where they would never be found. . . .” He trailed off, haunted eyes cast to the sea.
“That does not sound so awful,” Krista said, though at the same time pure dread spiraled up into her gut, twisting and churning. “And here I thought you were going to confess something serious.”
“You are right,” Borden continued. “What I did for those twins, stealing them away as I did, that was not my great sin, for I knew many evil forces sought to slay them. No, hiding those two children was a good thing, for they are still alive today. . . .”
He paused as if to collect his thoughts, then looked straight at her, eyes now emotionless. “My first sin came when I dropped hints that the stolen twins were under the care of Ser Torrence Raybourne, King of Wyn Darrè, and his younger brother, Ser Roderic, both of them the truest of friends.”
Krista could feel her heart slowly tightening within her chest. “And what was your second sin?”
Borden’s eyes darkened to pits of black. “My second sin came when I asked Ser Torrence and Ser Roderic to go along with the ruse. Yes, Krista, my second sin was when I asked them to steal two similar-looking babes, a boy and a girl, babes for the forces of evil to hunt and kill, two children to act as bait whilst my special twins remained safe in anonymity and comfort.”
Krista found that her heart had almost stopped its beating.
She could not tear her gaze from his cold, pitiless gaze as he continued. “I stole the life from two innocent children. And their lives have been naught but loneliness and hardship ever since. For seventeen years they have been living a lie.”
* * *
True heroism consists of conquering the pitfalls of the soul, whatever manner they may wage the battle. For anything can be accomplished, if you but set your mind to it and persevere.
—THE WAY AND TRUTH OF LAIJON
* * *
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
NAIL
4TH DAY OF THE FIRE MOON, 999TH YEAR OF LAIJON
TEVLYDOG, GUL KANA
As they entered Tevlydog, the sunset horizon was glowing as red as coals in a forge. Nail trudged just ahead of Val-Draekin. They were both still shoeless, clothes raggedy. The Vallè limped along as best he could. In front of Nail, Bronwyn Allen led the two dun-colored stallions by the reins, the white feathers tied in her hair fluttering in the breeze. Her muscular oghul companion, Cromm Cru’x, walked at her side. They were both dressed in better raiment, and they carried a myriad of weapons. The oghul was again sucking on the small black stone. When he wasn’t sucking on it, he kept it in a leather pouch at his belt. Nail recalled the street vendor in Stanclyffe saying some oghuls would suck on rocks to stave their thirst for blood.
It had been almost three days of hard travel since Cromm and the girl had rescued Nail and Val-Draekin from the cliff and Hragna’Ar cages. Nail had learned early on that the dark-eyed girl tolerated no slacking from her companions. Even though they were both shoeless, Bronwyn expected Nail and the Vallè to keep up with the horses, even when Val-Draekin’s limp became a hindrance and slowed them down. Nights consisted of sleeping under the stars in the cold air, thin blankets thrown over them. For weapons, Nail carried an old rusty hatchet he’d pulled from one of the Hragna’Ar oghuls, Val-Draekin a worse-looking dagger with an even duller edge.
Bronwyn exuded a confidence unlike any he had encountered before, especially in a girl so near his own age. She was eighteen. And the dark stains of black ash smeared around her eyes and cheeks reminded him of the war paint on the Sør Sevier warhorses of Aeros Raijael’s army. It wasn’t until almost half a day of traveling with the girl that he finally realized the black smudges were permanent tattoos. And under those tattoos, her eyes always bore a somewhat indifferent, faraway expression. But she wasn’t the only one with a questionable look, for Cromm was constantly eying Val-Draekin with something akin to suspicion.
Though their conversations had been sparse, there were a few details of his travel companion’s lives Nail had pieced together. Bronwyn’s father had been a Wyn Darrè trader who labored out of a small port north of Ikaboa. He dealt in rare goods, the type of rare goods gathered mainly by oghul pirates. Cromm had been one of those oghul pirates. He bought, sold, pillaged, and stole a lot of things, but his specialty was an extremely scarce and hard-to-get drug the oghul had called Blood of the Draygin.
Their first night together, Bronwyn had mentioned the death of her father. He was killed when the armies of Sør Sevier stormed the shores of Wyn Darrè just north of Ikaboa five years ago. Bronwyn had nearly been killed herself, and her older brother had been taken captive by Aeros Raijael. “Never was there a more determined or smarter fighter than Mancellor,” she’d said. “My brother was not the type to die quick. He is the type to make the best of any situation, a survivor.” She pointed to the ink around her own eyes. “I blackened my own eyes in his honor.” She looked at her oghul companion then. “Cromm found me near death in the carnage left by A
eros’ armies. He owed my father a debt, and so nursed me back to health aboard his ship, the Ja Tr’all. I joined his pirate crew and have been raiding the Bloodwood Forest for Blood of the Dragon ever since.”
“And where is the the Ja Tr’all now?” Val-Draekin asked.
“Sunk,” Cromm answered with a grunt. “And all my crew dead with it.”
“It was sunk off the east coast of Gul Kana not five miles south of Wroclaw,” Bronwyn confirmed. “We chased the oghuls who done it clear to Deadwood Gate. Took our revenge on the last of them when we rescued you.”
Neither Nail nor Val-Draekin had offered much if any information on why they had been near Deadwood Gate themselves. And neither Bronwyn nor Cromm had asked, which was good, because Nail found it hard to think of all the friends he had lost. He often wondered where Stefan was. Dokie and Liz Hen, too. It had been so long since he had seen Stefan. Roguemoore was dead. Val-Draekin had been his sole companion for so long now.
And now, together, they had finally reached Tevlydog.
It was a large town, thousands of gray buildings thatched with shadow. The place was naught but dingy streets and dreary alleyways and other such sordid dwellings. Not nearly as big as Lord’s Point. But Nail had never seen a town so trashy and grim. Troops of dogs rooted in crooked alleys. And what passersby he saw were a mixed lot. About half were oghuls; the other half were timid-looking humans.
“These bastards need to learn to stand up for themselves,” Bronwyn growled. “Hragna’Ar is spreading, and nobody here has the balls to stop it.”
“The streets seem mostly empty to me,” Val-Draekin mentioned.
Bronwyn looked back at the Vallè. “Rumor is, King Jovan has summoned all fighters to Amadon in preparation for the coming battle with the White Prince. The summons has emptied most every town in Gul Kana of able-bodied fighters, left towns like Tevlydog susceptible to being overrun by Hragna’Ar oghuls and thieves, outlaws and beggars.”
The Blackest Heart Page 83